Paris En Blanc
by Salsa849
Summary: Modern College AU. It's a Snow Day in the City of Lights, Enjolras is on foot in the fast-approaching blizzard and a friend unexpectedly comes to his aid. Fluff and introspection ensue. EnjolrasxGrantaire


**Title: Paris En Blanc**

**Pairing: Enjolras/Grantaire**

**Rating: T  
**

**Length: 3,260**

**Description: Modern College AU. It's a Snow Day in the City of Lights, Enjolras is on foot in the fast-approaching blizzard and a friend unexpectedly comes to his aid. Fluff and introspection ensue. **

**Disclaimer:** Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo, I own nothing.

**Notes:**This is my first exR piece, so constructive criticism would be very welcome :)

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Paris En Blanc

The snow was tumbling down in droves; carpeting the streets and successfully cutting the inner city off from the outside world. With the rush hour over and the people retired, the City of Lights had become a City of Ghosts. Even those most wretched of the streets had retreated from view; knowing business was over for this night. In days gone by street urchins would have spilled out from the alleys, the city wholly theirs for those short hours preceding daybreak and the snow their temporary kingdom. These days the lesser-used subway stations proved a much more attractive respite. This late winter snow was the type to lie in wait for a few days of icily ominous winds, and just as the sensible hearts had exhaled in relief and the romantics sighed in disappointment; it swept in to take the world by storm. Within an hour, Paris was conquered.

Enjolras had been prepared with an extra jumper in the back seat of his car, but not with a shovel to dig his ancient Renault out of the drifts. By the time he'd managed to shift the thick clumps of snow assembling around the tyres, the old engine was stuttering and failing with every start. A good few futile attempts later, Enjolras had taken pity on the Renault and accepted that he wouldn't be making it to the Musain that night. It would be at least an hour's walk into the Marais where his apartment was, and another half-hour to the Musain. Even if he did make it, it was already nearing ten pm. Although on a normal night he could expect to find his friends there for hours more, the snow would be forcing them home as well. Combeferre would probably crash at Courfeyrac's rather than their shared apartment; it was barely ten minutes from the Musain and Courfeyrac was generous with his spare rooms. Grantaire's was even closer, but god knows what state _it _would be in.

It was probably for the best that the Renault 4CV gave out when it did, Enjolras reasoned as he slipped and trudged his way through the boulevards. The tyres had been wearing thin and his beloved Paris had barely begun to grit the roads.

He shivered once and pulled his red coat tighter around him, resisting the icy biting of his fingers from his mind. _Onwards, ever onwards, ever progressing_. Complaining about the cold – even to himself – would do nothing to stop it. He had better things to concern himself with – his concentration suddenly jarred as a converse-clad foot slipped on black ice and a hand shot out to catch himself on a metal pole detailing bus times; long since frozen to the touch. The student bit back a gasp and ignored the stab of pain which coursed through his exposed fingers; now a patchy mess of red and white. Instead he tucked his hands against his sides and around his torso in an awkward hug and marched on, taking extra care with the seemingly clear parts.

With his head fixated on the pavement and his mind deliciously blank to ward off the sensations of cold, he didn't notice the other man almost running down the opposite side of the otherwise deserted avenue, until he crossed it to barrel into Enjolras with a crow of delight. He reacted instinctively; twisting away and raising his fists to fend off the stranger when he was snapped out of his trance by a laugh he knew – winding his favourite red scarf under and around his upturned collar.

"…Grantaire?"

"The one and only; at your service," the drunk said cheerfully, fumbling to adjust the scarf with his mittens. Enjolras watched in confusion and wariness as the other man unslung the rucksack from his shoulder and rummaged through it, unearthing two pairs of gloves. "Ski or wool, Apollo?"

"Don't call me that," Enjolras muttered half-heartedly as his numb fingers struggled into the ski gloves. He almost sighed in relief when each hand met with two preheated (undoubtedly by Grantaire) hand-warmers. He took a moment to relish the feeling, then snapped back to Grantaire who was still searching the backpack. His usually eloquent mind, now frozen and muddled, finally came up with; "What the hell are you doing here?"

The dark-haired man shrugged and pulled out a pair of snow boots to match his own. "You didn't show at the Musain and Courfeyrac mentioned something about you driving to the suburbs to visit your parents today. I figured you'd broken down, and being the stubborn git you are wouldn't call anyone for help. And as the entire population has gone into hiding, I thought what better way to spent a Tuesday night than to rescue our beloved Apollo! Truly, Life has no greater joy…"

"Be serious, Grantaire," Enjolras chided and cut him off before he could insert his usual _"I am wild"_. "Why are you here?"

"For you," Grantaire replied, placing the snow boots down to gently tug a warm but horribly unfashionable beanie over his blond curls. His hands lingered, brushing minuscule snowflakes away, and Enjolras chose to ignore the way his chest tightened. Grantaire's cheeks were tinged a light pink as he stepped back.

"You ventured out in this blizzard – " for that's what the constant flurries were shaping to become " – for me? Grantaire, how much have you drunk?"

"I'm sober!" the other man protested, then paused. "Ish. Now remove those drenched slippers and put on the snow boots before you freeze again. Get walking, there's still a while to go before your apartment."

"Are those Combeferre's?" Enjolras asked, squinting at Grantaire's boots as he bent to lace up his own.

"He won't miss them, he's at Courfeyrac's."

"How did you even get in to find all this?" the blond demanded, squashing his appreciation for the foot-warmers present at his toes.

Finally Grantaire had the grace to look a little sheepish. "I, ah, borrowed Combeferre's keys from his coat. He said you'd make it home fine, and I believed you would too but thought you might appreciate a little help. The Musain itself was closing, so it's not like I had anything better to do."

"Thank you," Enjolras said after a long pause. "I do appreciate it." Grantaire grinned in satisfaction and they continued to slush on in a comfortable silence. Enjolras glanced at him, unsettled. This was a side of Grantaire he'd never seen and rarely heard of; a welcome change from the lazy drunk who loitered around their crowd and was welcomed by the rest for his good humour, despite it often veering into sarcastic cynicism. It was…nice, to exchange words that for once were neither angry nor disdainful. At the Café Musain, Grantaire daily proved himself to be extraordinarily adept at getting under Enjolras' skin. He defied the revolutionary's ideals and beliefs with his bitter cynicism at every turn, exposing the (admittedly few) holes in his logic and eagerly goading him to the brink of his control. Despite the drunkard's talent for irritation, Enjolras sometimes found himself secretly enjoying the challenge. It was beyond difficult to convert a cynic, but occasionally Enjolras felt that if he could convince Grantaire to believe in something, the rest of the world would be easy.

An exclamation from his right dragged him out of his thoughts, and he quirked an eyebrow in amusement as Grantaire once again struggled with the battered rucksack. He emerged triumphantly with a thermos flask, and the blond's eyes widened, unable to hold back the admiration in his tone. "You really did think of everything."

"Not everything, not yet," Grantaire corrected him, reaching into his jacket pocket as Enjolras swallowed a steaming mouthful of hot chocolate. He withdrew a familiar hip-flask. "Don't look at me like that Apollo, Baileys is just what you need to warm up on a snow day. It's not as if you'll have classes tomorrow; according to the radio the snow's planned to continue until tomorrow afternoon. Lie-ins for all!"

"When do you _not_ lie in," Enjolras murmured rhetorically, unable to muster up as much disdain as usual. Perhaps it was the new found warmth bubbling through his body. He regarded the cap of Baileys he'd been handed, and decided one wouldn't hurt. The spike of heat that travelled down his chest was a pleasant surprise, as was the rush of warmth that followed when he looked up to see Grantaire's expression; all bright blue eyes and wind-flushed cheeks under rogue black curls escaping the confines of his cap. Enjolras could see tiny flakes trapped in his long lashes from this proximity, and he looked away quickly; struggling to regain control his thoughts. Grantaire was an idle, useless drunkard who never bothered to work for his degree, and took delight in distracting and driving him to his wits' end.

"Good, isn't it?" the subject of his thoughts said proudly, and Enjolras nodded grudgingly. A few moments later the art student spoke up again. "How was your family?"

Startled, Enjolras replied carefully. "They're well; the same as usual."

"Does your father still believe it's not too late to change career paths?"

This time he hesitated after the wry comment. He couldn't remember talking to Grantaire about his family before, but he was always there wasn't he? While he talked politics and social justice, and apparently during the rare times he spoke of personal matters. It would be easy to dismiss Grantaire, to claim it as his own personal business and swiftly end the conversation. It would be easy to dismiss his lack of control as a result of the burning of a thousand tiny needles into his elegant fingers as they warmed up. But as he let a quiet "Yes" slip from his throat, he knew that the only reason he was sharing this with Grantaire was purely that it was Grantaire.

This unfamiliar camaraderie was beginning to terrify him.

Beside him in the whirling snow, Grantaire snorted. "He's an idiot. There isn't a course that fits you better than PPE."

"In his words, Law is more prestigious and more stable."

"Only to narrow-minded old-fashioned fools. When you're done saving the world and rescuing poor unfortunate souls like myself, you can do a conversion course and settle down as a rich middle-aged lawyer with 2.5 kids." Grantaire cast him a sideways glance. "I doubt you will though."

"That doesn't count for much, seeing as you doubt everything."

Grantaire laughed, but Enjolras felt a stab of guilt at the falsity underlying it. "Low blow, Enjolras. But as I was saying – to you or the skies; it matters little who is listening – I doubt you'll die anywhere but fighting for what you believe in."

Enjolras found this both oddly comforting and a little disturbing – he had not thought overly about it, but subconsciously he supposed he has always thought of it as the best way to die if die he must; all men must die after all. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that the drunkard he'd barely considered a friend before tonight had known before he himself did.

They walked on, and Enjolras' fingers continued to burn. He grit his teeth against it but even the marble countenance Grantaire mockingly referred to him as couldn't entirely suppress a wince. In an instant Grantaire was in front of him, halting both of their tracks and tucking the flask under his arm as he vigorously chafed Enjolras' hands in his own.

"Stupid Apollo, why didn't you say?" he scolded lightly. His thinner woollen mittens looked odd wrapped around Enjolras' bulky ski gloves.

"It would have disappeared sooner or later; we're not far."

"You need to learn how to let people help you," Grantaire said firmly; the other interpreted it as patronisingly. "You can't do everything yourself. Sometimes you need other people – "

"I didn't need you tonight," Enjolras snapped and immediately regretted it as the smile in Grantaire's eyes faltered for a second, though his red snow-chapped lips didn't move.

"I know." He released the other's hands, handed back the warm thermos flask and resumed his pace.

Enjolras mentally shook himself and hurried to catch up with the other man. "Grantaire," he began, words foreign on his tongue. "It's true I didn't need you tonight…but you've made it a lot more bearable. Although honestly I still don't understand why you went to so much effort –" that was hard to admit for he who prided himself on understanding the politics and social rights of people all over the world "– you've shown yourself to be a true friend, and I'm grateful."

Grantaire smiled a rare true smile then, and he thought the faint blush must be his imagination. "Does this mean I'm welcome at the Musain from now on?" he teased.

Enjolras returned the smile and reached out to briefly clasp his arm. He didn't miss the way the dark-haired man blinked in surprise. He felt like doing it himself to be honest. He loved his friends dearly, but he was far from prone to physical displays of affection. "Consider yourself a permanent fixture."

Grantaire visibly brightened at his words and perhaps unconsciously reached for the hip-flask in his right pocket. His hand froze in its path, and he addressed the ground with his next words, in a quieter voice than Enjolras had ever heard from him. "And what if your permanent fixture arrives dead drunk and sleeps and slurs his way through the entire meeting? What then, Apollo? What will the _great Apollo_ choose to do?"

This time it was Enjolras who halted Grantaire in the snow. They were only a couple of blocks from his house, but he barely registered the location – the Grantaire who he knew so little of was what mattered now. He spoke gently, blue eyes intent on the downcast ones. "Then Apollo will ensure Dionysus arrives home in one piece. He may not always be patient with Dionysus, for he is only human and not a god as the delusional Dionysus insists, but he will never cast his friend out without good reason." Enjolras raised his glove to his Dionysus' jaw, tilting it upwards somewhat nervously. "Is that acceptable?"

The sky blue eyes were warm on him, and suddenly beautiful in a moment unglazed by alcohol nor narrowed in sarcasm. Then Grantaire reached through the snow and his icy mittenless fingers were threading a path through damp curls, tugging lightly and dropping to curve around his neck. "It's more than I would wish for, O Great Apollo."

The lump in Apollo's throat blossomed, and he strove to make sense of it. _But why should he?_ Why should he contain; constrain his emotions to what he had learnt from past experiences and social media? Although no Apollo, no marble statue; Enjolras firmly believed in himself. He believed in his causes; he believed in justice; in the world of tomorrow. He trusted himself to lead his friends in the battlefield of his causes. Even when struck down, he trusted others to continue their work; he believed even the smallest resistance would have an impact; even if he and his friends were but a minor screw in a colossal, functioning system, the right amount of pressure could cause a domino effect of repercussions grazing off one another to become an entity in its own right. If he trusted himself to hold the future in his hands, then why doubt himself in this? With Grantaire, with R? The importance of Grantaire was only just beginning to merge into conscious thought, but he knew it was something that would not fade nor slip away. He would trust his mind in this as he trusted it with his beloved Patria; as he believed in Patria so he would believe in Grantaire and his own instinct.

All this passed through his mind in mere seconds, and then he was leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on the corner of R's mouth.

Drawing back, he caught a glimpse of Grantaire's eyes – wild, wide, almost feverish and fixed on him – before the other man launched forward. Vice-like arms seized around his neck and shoulders as if they would never have the same chance. Enjolras felt hot breath against his neck, a sharp nose burrowed behind his ear and dark hair brushing his cheekbones; but a moment later he was cold and his arms hollow once more. Without even a glance Grantaire turned, and they walked the remaining hundred yards in silence.

Enjolras paused on the doorstep, on his blunt heel and grabbed Grantaire's hand before he had taken more than a couple of steps. "You should come inside."

It was more of an order than a request but Grantaire still hung back, eyes wide and cheeks bright red. "You don't – you don't mean…"

"No! I…" Now Enjolras was blushing too, but his marble countenance saved him. He gestured to the restless storm in which Grantaire stood unheeding – a fixed point; one tangible entity in an unstable cosmos – and cleared his throat. "You're as wet and cold as I am, it's another half hour to your place and I have a sofa bed you can crash on."

Disappointment and longing were equally evident in Grantaire's eyes until he reined them in, but Enjolras detected a hint of relief there too. It made him feel slightly more at ease with keeping hold of the cynic's hand as they ascended three flights of stairs side by side, and as he finally, reluctantly let go in order to turn on the electric fire and ready the sofa bed. By the time he'd returned to the main room with two scalding hot water bottles under his arm, his friend was already twisted and bundled into the blankets; seemingly dead to the world. The first bottle slipped easily into place by his feet, but the second was interrupted by a clasped arm whilst being manoeuvred into the hollow his arms had created against his chest.

Grantaire blinked up at his Apollo, then tugged gently at the dry-shirt-clad arm and turned one corner of the blankets down. Enjolras hesitated – _not ready I know I'm not ready for that_ – and almost shook his head before he saw the fear and innocent _need; _the everyday veil torn down by exhaustion and hope. Decision made, he kicked off the boots and crawled in next to Grantaire; the water bottle both a shield and a magnet for them. He could feel Grantaire's wondering eyes on him just as clearly as he could hear the panicked voices of reason in his head, but he closed his eyes to both and moved closer to the heat. They were barely touching, but it felt good. At some point in the night one or the other of them rose to take the duvet from Enjolras' bed also, but the extra warmth did nothing to lessen the distance between the two young men.

Enjolras dreamt of white intermingled with red and black and blue and when he woke to a warm body entwined with his own, water bottle abandoned on the floor; he felt no regret.

_Fin._

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**Notes:**

- I chose the Marais for Enjolras' apartment, because it's generally a student area, and as luck would have it is about half an hour's walk from where the Musain would have been located almost 200 years ago :)

-For anyone not tied up with the British university system, PPE translates as Politics, Philosophy and Economics. I've been researching and haven't found an equivalent for this degree in Paris yet, the closest is the "Double Licence 3 Philosophie-Science Politique" at the _University of Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne_. If this develops into anything further I might change it, but for now I'm content with how it is.

- Here's a link to Enjolras' car; the Renault 4CV if anyone's interested. Initially I pictured a Ford Anglia, but then I realised our patriotic lead would probably prefer a French car. Even better; it was conceived and designed during WWII against the direct orders of the Germans occupying France. A hint of rebellion? Perfect for Enjolras!

en . wikipedia wiki / Renault_ 4CV

- I like research; guess you've figured that out by now :) You can also find me at over-the-irish-sea on tumblr, if anyone's interested. Thanks for reading!


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